Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (fantasy books to read .txt) 📕

are soft and aggressive and magnetic in a way I do not understand. He opens his mouth and his tongue caresses mine. A moan escapes me despite my thrumming nerves, despite the way my legs quiver as though I am walking across a ship at storm.

He pivots, lowering himself into my seat and pulling me on top of him. My legs settle in on other side, so that I’m straddling his lap, and the heat of his core and mine mingle between us.

His hands trace over my body, cradling my shoulders. I feel so small in his embrace. Slowly, we find a rhythm, our hands and heads and lips learning each other’s patterns.

But always, always, I can feel him hungry for more. He threads his fingers through the hair at the back of my head and forces our lips closer together. His tongue sends tingles around my mouth, buzzing. I grab onto his shirt, unsure if I’m trying to push him away or pull him closer.

Then he stands up again, hooking one arm under my legs and bracing my back with the other.

I let out panting breaths as he lifts me with him. All thoughts have vanished immediately. I never was much good as a multitasker.

And then he carries me towards the door.

His bedroom is a wide-open suite with a bookcase on one wall, a bar against the other, a seating area with a large table with papers scattered across it, art hanging from the walls, and a record player in the corner.

It is not the sort of place a man builds as a home for a couple, except for the bed, which is a four-poster with heavy golden curtains tied with golden tassels.

He drops me down.

I look up at him, this man I am supposed to hate.

“It is my first time,” I whisper, even though he knows that. I feel myself drifting into that nervous state where it might just paralyze me.

He looks down at me from what seems like a million miles above. His eyes are dark and stormy. Fierce with lust. I see his hands flex, relax, flex again. I can almost touch the energy rolling off him in powerful waves.

“I know,” he says, and in that simple sentence there are so many more things left unsaid that I could spend years analyzing them and still miss a few.

But we don’t have years. All we have is now. Right now. Tonight.

He shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor, revealing shirtsleeves stretched taut by bulging biceps. The hint of chest at the throat of his shirt is a broad shelf of muscle, too.

Then, leaning forward, he slides his hand up my thigh, past the hem of my dress, towards my sex. When his finger presses against my panties, I let out a gasp, my voice catching. Pleasure mixes with the fear. He moves his finger in small circles, tracing my lips through the fabric.

He moves his fingers even quicker. New lust awakens in me as I writhe with the motion, twisting my hips here and there. When he pushes my underwear aside and his bare fingertip presses firmly against my lips, I almost shove him away. But the pleasure goes to war with my anxiety and I kiss him harder.

He takes my hand and moves it down to his manhood. He is already rock-hard. I had a few experiences in high school—mostly fumbling around and dry humping in the dark of a movie theater—but nothing like this, this wild ride. He’s huge, an outline bursting through the fabric of his pants.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper when he breaks off the kiss.

I shift my hand up and down, letting instinct take me. I can’t afford to think. If I do, I won’t allow myself to keep going. I’ll probably run screaming, actually. But this is so far outside of any reality I ever thought I’d be living in that, instead of running, I stroke his manhood harder through the silk of his suit pants, settling into the warmth of his groans filling the room and the way his mouth twists when I rub faster.

He slides his finger down and then presses softly at my opening. I make to kiss him again but he keeps his eyes fixed on me, drinking me in. I lean back, closing my eyes and seeing nothing but feeling everything.

Then he pushes his finger inside of me. Oh God … I am so wet, wetter than I’ve ever been in my life, wetter than any half-remembered sex dream or midnight fantasy.

But when he pulls his finger out of me, I clench again.

“Stop,” he growls. “Just relax.”

He separates from me and I moan out loud, almost against my will. It feels cold when he’s not touching me, although part of me knows that’s all in my head. The distance between us—just a few inches—that once felt far too close for comfort, now feels like a world apart.

Erik sees me mewling like a cat in heat and laughs under his breath as he undoes the buttons of his shirt one by one. It falls open, revealing a tanned, smooth chest and abs like granite cliffs, offset by a tattoo of some kind of bird of prey. Veins ripple across his lower abdomen. When he undoes the buckle of his pants, they fall to the floor and he steps out of them, discarding his shirt at the same time.

He’s naked.

I want to push him onto a pedestal and admire him. I’ve read enough smutty romance novels to know that calling a man a Greek god is as overdone as it gets, but if there is a single man on earth who truly deserves that description, it’s the one standing in front of me.

Every inch of him is sculpted and chiseled. The tattoos tracing over his wrists and shoulders—abstract lines following the flight pattern of the bird of prey inked on his chest—are stark and beautiful in a sinister kind of way. My eyes